


the heart by which we live

by jollyjellyfish



Series: mutability [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, F/M, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Modern Thedas, Romance, Spoilers for Trespasser, daemon AU, i really enjoy brooding elves, we really need those in sollavellan hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollyjellyfish/pseuds/jollyjellyfish
Summary: Solas might have Fallen a long time ago - if Fallen is the right word for it. But he never feels less like a god than when the elf with the wolf daemon walks into the library.





	the heart by which we live

Solas knows many things about the elf with the wolf daemon. He knows she comes into the library every Tuesday and Thursday, and sometimes even on Saturdays, and spends a full day there, scribbling furiously on notebooks as the black wolf naps quietly at her feet. He knows she reads on Elvhen history, because he recognises the books that pile up precariously at her desk, can recognise her cursive, slanted handwriting from the pieces of paper she sometimes forget between the pages. He knows she likes old jazz scores and some songs he vaguely recognises - melodies that might have descended from times long gone. Like most of the other patrons of the library, she doesn’t climb the steps to the balcony. But unlike them, she smiles up to him sometimes, in the quiet mornings where they are the only ones there, and says goodbye when she leaves, a small wave upwards.

 

Revas gives him a month before giving her opinion, as another day passes when the elf leaves and Solas is silent, a vague feeling of embarrassment he has not felt before.

 

“You could just talk to her” and really, as much as he can’t imagine not having her voice speaking near his ear, sometimes he wishes that she would not speak so plainly.

 

He sighs and she nips at his earlobe, both friendly and admonishing, before flying to perch at a nearby windowsill, her feathers lustrous under the sunlight.

 

“It is not that simple” he says, looking down at the ancient text he is translating.

 

It has been a long time since his self-imposed exile - his Fall before the Falling, when the world was cleaved in two, but spared from destruction - and yet, there are things he is still unfamiliar with. Mortality still eludes him, and many little things have changed over time, time he spent chasing the remnants of the past in the Fade without looking at the here and now. Revas tilts her head at him gently, and it helps to think that she was once a strange thing herself.

 

The elf with the wolf daemon walks in the next day and he watches her write interminable notes in unlined paper, hears her murmur “fenedhis” as a heavy tome slips from her hands, watches her leave, the wolf trailing behind her, a dark figure that brings echoes in his own soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day he hears steps up his balcony, and looks up to see the elf, curly hair tied up and hands slightly clenched at her side. Solas raises one eyebrow at her, surprised and feels rather than sees Revas tilt her head from her perch at his desk. She is even more beautiful up close and a weird fluttering seems to be stuck around his chest.

 

One breath, and her words come slowly, but gaining speed as the wolf sits besides her, fingers coming to rest atop his head.

 

“Ir abelas, I hope I’m not bothering you, but I saw that you work on ancient Elven, and I’ve been struggling with this passage for so long—” and her cheeks darken slightly, but her words don’t waver, “—what I meant to say is, would you mind giving me some advice?”

 

She has noticed the books he carries up the stairs, and he feels somehow avenged that he is not the only one. The wolf stares at him for a moment, and his eyes are a dark shade of amber, much like hers. He thinks of forgotten days in which time was not forever escaping his reach, when urgency was only known for those feelings he did not want to fight. And he thinks of the first time he saw Revas flying over the city’s skyline. There is very little to gain from forgetting what he is now, but remembering can be so painful.

 

“Of course, I’d be glad to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ellana is an archeologist whose interest in the past makes Solas lose himself ever so often. Some days, before she leaves, she comes up the stairs, sits at his desk and says “tell me something about ancient ruins” and watches with fascinated eyes as he speaks of past things, both great and mundane. In return, she tells him of excavations, hot summers in Antiva, holding small pieces of Antiquity and marvelling at the resistance of history, all while La’ghilan lies quiet at her feet.

 

One day she brings him tea alongside her own steaming cup, and her cheeks darken days later, when he mentions distractedly how much he dislikes the beverage - the next morning, it is him that brings it, an apologetic gesture. She smiles at him and, as he clasps his hand behind his back, ready to say goodbye, asks:

 

“Tell me about a spirit you met.”

 

He obeys.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He makes the mistake of mentioning her blood writing once - expects her to be defensive, but not for her face to fall for a moment, before saying “we are trying our best” in the softest voice he has ever heard. La’ghilan nuzzles her hand as she excuses herself, quick towards the stairs and this is the first time he touches her, holding her right wrist.

 

“Ir abelas, lethallan” and he is glad he has blamed himself for so long, because it makes his voice catch and his regret clear. It is true - whatever history has been modified, whatever memory has twisted bondage into a farce of liberation, it is him who must bear it, and not Ellana, whose bright eyes are thankful and who looks at his hand on her wrist with something akin to wonder. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another change of tide as he walks down the stairs at the end of the day, and Ellana is still there, though her books have long been closed, notebook packed away. There is something morose in the air, and La’ghilan keeps nuzzling her knees as she rests her chin on her hands, looking ahead through window to the darkening sky. He has come to know the curve of her neck, the way her hair falls down her back, curls peeking outwards, can recognise the way she holds herself when she is focused, when she is stressed. This is none of it now, only a sourness that seems to taint the air as she remains unnaturally still.

 

“You are here late, lethallan”

 

There is movement, even if small and startled, and she downs her hands, throws a glance over her shoulder.

 

“It is not seven yet - your age is showing, hahren” she replies, but the quip is half-hearted. She looks down at her table, notices her things packed away and gives him an embarrassed look. Solas wants to wipe it away, wants her to ask for a story, anything of beauty he could give her - and she is silent, there is no excuse for him to linger, and yet.

 

“Can I help you?” It’s what he says, tentatively. It feels heavy in his tongue and he regrets it because there is nothing that he can give anymore except memories tinted with his mistakes. He should leave, should let this go while it is possible.

 

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” she says before he can move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They go to the Antivan place two blocks away, where they greet Ellana by named and smile at Solas as if they knew him. They have wine served in large glasses and a small portion of a rice cake he has never seen before. Ellana spends half an hour telling him of her and her co-worker Merrill’s battle against institutions that still seem to think their history is not for them to know.

 

Afterwards, when the weariness seems to have left her, and he is telling her of voyages in the Fade, she touches his hand ever so softly.

 

“Ma serannas”

 

The candlelight does something beautiful to her complexion, bringing out the warmest tones of her umber skin, her smile mellowed by the wine. There is a curl falling over her face, and Solas wants to tuck it behind her ear, caress her cheek. Instead, he merely smiles.

 

“It was my pleasure”

 

It is a perpetual tethering at the edge of the abyss and, for him, falling has always been inevitable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She invites him to her Name Day celebrations, and he shows up to The Herald’s Rest with a vague feeling of uneasiness. Ellana is clearly pleased to see him, and her cheeks flush as he gives her a small package with his gift. There is a twittering around the table as he sits down - he knows that that empty place next to her had been saved for him and it’s good he has not blushed in centuries. Introductions are made as he tries to match faces with names that Ellana has told him before. A blonde, short-haired elf blows a raspberry when he greets her ( _aneth ara_ , he had said, as friendly as he could) and the nervous, excitable Merrill only exclaims “Sera!” as if she was the one causing offence.

 

Solas thinks that a curt nod is probably the best greeting he could get from the grim-looking Blackwall - _he is determined to be miserable_ , Ellana said once, exasperated. Nonetheless, everyone seems to be extending him some goodwill, and he shouldn’t have doubt they would, because it is Ellana and how can one not want to make her smile like she does now, beautifully at ease? Doing his best to try and look away from her face, he focuses on the story that the red-haired dwarf (Varric, the novelist) is telling while Cassandra makes disgusted noises as another extravagance is added to the narrative.

 

They are still laughing when the dwarf exclaims: “Sparkler!” and Ellana is being swept up into a hug and the Tevinter (because he is Tevinter, from accent to meticulous outfit) kisses her knuckles. Something inside Solas clenches and then a colourful peacock pecks at La’ghilan’s ears, his feathery tail a gesture of defiance - Solas heart seems to return from where it had dropped. He knows instantly this is Dorian, a constant presence in Ellana’s stories. The man comes to a halt when their eyes meet.

 

“And you must be Solas. I have heard quite a lot about you.” His mouth curls in a smile that veers into the mocking. “Though I did not expect that you’d actually dress like an old man.”

 

Revas moves uncomfortably, and the air is filled with tension. Dorian has an arrogant tilt to his head, managing to strike the perfect balance, wrap derision into a joke, a clear warning. Solas can only resist a barbed response because something in the tevinter’s eyes softens when Ellana makes a noise that is both exasperated and embarrassed.

 

“Come on big guy, he only just arrived!”

 

The big Qunari at the far end of the table laughs. The moment is broken, and the hum of conversation snaps back into place.

 

Dorian takes his seat and his attention seems to shift to Sera, who seems particularly gleeful about the whole thing.However, Solas can feel the Qunari is still looking at him, intensely aware of the distrust lingering in the air - but when Solas' eyes slide to his deamon-less bulk, he receives a friendly grin to which he can only nod in return.

 

Varric plunges ahead with a story about a pirate defeating three men in a duel and Ellana seems to relax besides him. Her hand lies on the table and he wants to take it, wants to hold it, wants to do away with whatever doubts are there, because he _wants_. And while the night progresses, he can feel Ellana’s body next to him, how her knee bumps against his and the way she smiles up to him whenever Varric calls him “Chuckles”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 He walks her home under the moonlight and she shoves her hands in her coat pockets, as the chill autumnal air envelops them. And when they reach her door, his body aches as she smiles again, lower lip tinted with wine. He wants lick them clean, but instead he thanks her for the invitation, watches as she fishes her keys from her pockets, under the yellow light of her building’s entrance.

 

“No, thank you for coming” she says, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “And for walking me home.”

 

La’ghilan keeps looking at him and then Ellana moves, and it is so gentle, the way their lips touch. His hands hang useless at his side until she steps back, and he can see the apology ready to come before he pulls her back in and kisses her again, slowly, with intent. When they break apart for air, she looks down at his fingers circling her wrist and smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dorian is waiting for him outside the library, lounging unpretentiously against the stone walls. He straightens as Solas walks out, smooths down his jacket and skips any pleasantries.

 

“I have nothing against you” he says, and that is unexpected. The tevinter looks at Revas, touches his own daemon’s head and continues: “But Ellana is my best friend and therefore that fact is completely useless.”

 

Solas does not know what to say - that he doesn’t want to hurt her? He knows it is only a matter of time. Time is so fast nowadays, already too soon. And yet, he cannot help it, being pulled by something beyond him, stronger than magic, stronger than flesh and spirit. He wants to tell Dorian this is been inevitable since she walked into his library, wants him to know he fought it.

 

“I saw how you looked at her” Dorian splays his fingers in the air eloquently.

 

Has it already been laid so bare?

 

“And therefore you have my blessing.”

 

Solas fights the urge to clasp his hands behind his back and presses his lips into a thin line, willing himself not to smile. It is the kind of posturing he could never let go of, too close to his own nature for him to forget. It is Revas who says “thank you” and the peacock tilts his head at her as Dorian’s eyes widen slightly.

 

“Her name is Revas” the elf says, eyeing his daemon with barely concealed exasperation.

 

Dorian glances down to where his own daemon is and then looks at him again. He seems slightly mollified, the defiant tilt of his chin gone.

 

“May I introduce you to Petimus, then” he says, and the peacock bobs his head once, a fluid, quick movement. They stare awkwardly at each other for a second, before Dorian states he is very busy, have a good day, brushes a strand of his meticulously styled hair with a precise movement and Solas is grateful to say goodbye.

 

As he walks off, Dorian looks over his shoulder:

 

“I’ll gladly live up to any Southern expectations of my countrymen if you hurt her.” are his parting words.

 

 

 

 

 

(Sera, however, does not seem to think words work well as warning.

 

Solas never wants to see bees ever again.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

He takes his revenge by winning every single trinket Sera owns in their Wicked Grace game a month later. Ellana finds it all hilarious, and kisses him breathlessly, so fondly, when they reach her door.

 

Falling always begins like this, he thinks dazedly. With so much happiness, so very much to lose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is late and Ellana is falling asleep on his sofa, a book long forgotten in her hands. It is a common sight these days and Solas loathes himself as he leans over her, lips to her forehead. This intimacy is already to much, these evenings they spend together — it would be kinder to let them go, and yet.

 

“It is late” he says as her eyes flutter open. “You should go home.”

 

Her hand touches his chest, a point of warmth right over his heart.“Or I could stay”

 

And whatever she sees in his eyes makes her recoil and Solas knows this is the clincher, this is the time to let it go. If he can summon enough strength, this is when it will crumble, and he will let her walk away and leave behind whatever is blossoming, this soft tender thing he doesn’t know how to care for.

 

He heard a long time ago that flesh was weak, but now his will is weaker - there is hurt in her eyes and he cannot let her think that this is a lie.

 

“I am a coward” he says, and the words reverberate in the room. Whatever she was expecting, this was not it, and her mouth opens as he continues:

 

“There is something you must know”

 

And he begins, a long time ago, trying to join together a narrative he has long kept hidden, tucked somewhere in his immortal heart, painful memories and a bitterness that taints every word, every turn of phrase, even his fondest memories. He speaks of all the failures, of him, of their people, of magic and faith and reigns of terror. She only watches, her eyes widening, and his voice runs hoarse of talking. He avoids her gaze, looking towards the window - he does not want to see the disgust, the anger, but then she touches his cheek and when their eyes finally meet he can only see kindness.

 

Ellana takes his face in her hands and he feels her wiping the wetness from his cheeks. When was the last time he cried? He feels her cradling him in her arms, half sitting on his couch, and apologies are forming at his lips as she shushes him with her fingers, moves to kiss his forehead.

 

There is an image: a fallen god on his knees, basking on the acceptance of a mortal. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s snowing outside. The TV shows a so-called historical fiction on the origins of the First Blight. Dorian makes an exasperated sound from the couch:

 

“It is impossible to conjure a spirit this way!”

 

Solas hums in agreement from his place in the armchair, and Ellana chuckles, head resting against his knees. The room is warm and smells of cinnamon. Petimus and La’ghilan are both on the floor, huddled close, while Revas remains on the little perch that had mysteriously shown up after Solas’ second visit.

 

On the screen, a Tevinter magister swirls a cape around and vanishes in the air. The nose that escapes Dorian is almost painful.

 

“Why do I suffer these horrible movies?” he asks, despite looking quite content leaning against the Iron Bull, a cup of hot cocoa held loosely on his hands. Ellana glances over to him, face impassive.

 

“To enjoy my beautiful company, of course” and Solas wants to say _yes absolutely, this can go on forever_ but he merely touches her head, and a familiar feeling of weakness overtakes him as she sighs contentedly, leans into his touch. Outside, the wind picks up speed - Solas remembers his first winter in Ferelden, the shock of the cold, shivering at the wind, another mark of what he had become. Since then, there have been so many, too many to count, and now this one is indelibly in his mind - spiced cocoa and the storm dancing outside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They leave the library together, gloved hands intertwined. Their breaths make puffs of smoke in the air. Ahead of them, Revas and La’ghilan seem to be involved in an elaborate game of chase, snow clinging on black fur and feather. Solas marvels at how easy this is, how comfortable - trusting has never come without an effort, scars of a time where it could destroy you. Destruction that he could still bring, that he probably will, because whatever this is, it is impossible and something like a shadow dampens his vision and he knows it is deserved. Ellana tugs at his hand when they reach her house, goes on the tips of her toes.

 

When he brushes snowflakes of her hair, it is all so delicate, bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and he is holding her wrist before she decides to leave, but she keeps on moving closer. There is no air inside her hallway or throughout the lounge, daylight long gone, finding their way merely by memory. He is thousands of years old and still they kiss as if there is no tomorrow.

 

“Vhenan” he murmurs as he kisses her brow, her neck, her breasts. Hears her sigh from his touch, pulls her close until their bodies are almost fused together, skin to skin. _I love you_ , he thinks, mouths the words into her neck, their shape so familiar in his mouth, as if they had always been there. _I will never forget you._

 

 

 

 

 

 

She sleeps in his arms, pliant and warm. Solas looks at her face, memorises the turn of her lips, the shape of her nose, her eyelashes fluttering slightly as she dreams. He can’t grow old with her - this face will change but it’ll be forever engraved in his mind, as he trespasses through the years, the days greyer and greyer until any light is forgotten and his only solace is memory. And he, he will remain the same, a being with no future, ageless, timeless, and maybe his heart— maybe his heart will be the only thing that dies.

 

He leaves in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When next Ellana comes to the library, she will find a note that says only _goodbye_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Solas sits under the ruins of a temple in Dirthavaren, wards set around him, but sleep remains elusive. He know what awaits him in the Fade, the immense temptation to search for her, watch her from afar. Closing his eyes cannot offer him respite and the irony does not escape him - a Somniari afraid to thread his own dreams.

 

The first buds of spring are breaking through the grass, but there is still a chill in the air and Solas wonder if it will ever truly be gone.Revas sits at the branches above him and he can feel the weight of her gaze - they have barely spoken since he made his choice, and there is something stilted now, something so profoundly wrong. He breathes slowly, looks up to the skies, away from trees, flowers, all life around him. The smell of arbour blessing lingers in the air and really, it should not grow here—

 

_“It brings comfort”, said Ellana, as he admired the way the vine hung around her windowsill. “I’m grateful to have it growing here, as it grows on its own whim.”_

 

—He closes his eyes, hears the rustle above him, and Revas voice, her tone unmistakably plain, a rehashed argument making his way towards the surface.

 

“You are being ridiculous” she says and spikes anger in his heart.

 

“I did what was right” he replies, biting and quick. “I could not tether her to me.”

 

“You act as if the choice is only yours” the daemon says, flying down to the ground to stare him down, more unlike a raven than ever before. “What of her will?”

 

He shakes his head at her. Ellana should forget him, let his image fade as the years go by, find someone not marred by the Fall, someone not trapped in an existence that is half gone, half present. What can the Dread Wolf do for someone so dauntless?

 

Revas tilts her head at him, flies towards his shoulder and nips his ear viciously. Then, with one last look behind her, the daemon flies off above the trees and far away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is two years to the day since Ellana walked into the library that Solas returns to Skyhold. Everything seems painfully familiar - the librarians greet him with a smile, tell him of new additions to the collection and he finds that his alcove remains unused. Revas’ perch is empty and he feels her absence even more acutely.

 

Ellana’s desk is also empty, not even a dusty tome or forgotten note to signal her impending return. He bites back the disappointment, swallows the bitter taste of it because he had known it would come to this, it was why he left when he did - so she could still forget him. Once, he was proud of never conceding, never compromising - but now, now he settles into his work with resignation. There is nothing else beyond the endless days to come, and no steps will come up the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is unusually quiet in the library for the middle of the week, and there is a buzz in the air, the few people around away from their desks, huddled close.

 

“The site at the Temple of Sacred Ashes collapsed this morning” one of the librarians tells him by the way of explanation. “Apparently no one died but it was a near thing.”

 

He doesn’t remember if he says anything, could only think of Ellana, Ellana who dug deep into the earth to find the remnants of her own history, Ellana who was experienced enough be given the lead on the excavation at the Temple, had told him the news just before Yuletide, sprawled over his couch, excitement in her features. Ellana, who would definitely have been inside as the building went down, Ellana— his throat constricting and chest heaving as he walks away from the library, down the familiar streets, not seeing the sun come down over the city’s skyline.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the Iron Bull who opens the door to Ellana’s flat, after Solas is buzzed in before being able to say a word. Fully expecting to be turned away, he is stunned to be greeted with a mug of hot cocoa from the qunari’s big hands, even more stunned to see the sand cat peeking from behind Iron Bull’s legs. The Bull simply shrugs at him, a gesture of acceptance, and leads him into the lounge.

 

The first thing he notices is Revas, perched at her usual place by the armchair - the daemon stares at him for a moment before resuming grooming her feathers.

 

And then his breath catches.

 

Ellana is on the couch, resting against Dorian’s chest, a small gauze on her forehead, wrist wrapped in bandages, but otherwise looking unharmed. Her hair is down, falling over her shoulders, spilling over Dorian’s chest, stark against his white shirt. La’ghilan and Petimus are bundled together, napping on the floor. The tevinter has an arm around Ellana, but his other hand rests on the empty seat next to him. When the Iron Bull moves to sit back down, he takes Dorian hand and kisses it softly, his daemon trailing behind and gracefully jumping and tucking itself between the qunari and the tevinter.

 

With a gentle look on her face, Ellana smiles and gestures to the armchair.

 

“We are watching a drama about the Tevinter Empire” she says. “It’s terrible”

 

Solas takes a deep breath, and the air smells like spice, but that might be nostalgia. The room is filled with the muffled sounds of the TV - is this a beginning, or merely the continuation? Taking up his space in the armchair makes him feel like the balance has tilted, like time has regained meaning. Then Revas flies up to his shoulder and something unclenches inside him.

 

In the TV, a so-called Tevinter waxes lyric about his evil plan and Dorian huffs.

 

“Honestly, could they not get more believable Tevinters? Not one would be caught dead in such an outfit.”

 

“It is also a completely unrealistic take on blood magic” Solas replies, before he can think. “If they want to demonise it so much, they could at least say real things about it.”

 

Ellana laughs.

 

“It is good to know where both of your priorities lie.” And she sounds so fond that Solas wants to kneel down again before her, unworthy as he may be of such gentleness. It is perverse, he thinks, that he wishes she had received him with harsh words, turned him away, made him grovel before her. It is perverse that he still expects her to hate him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Later in the evening, as Dorian and Bull prepare to retire for the night, Petimus comes up to Solas, who hovers by the armchair, unwilling to go but afraid of staying. The peacock jumps to the perch, coming up almost as tall as Solas and glares at him for a solid minute.

 

“You are lucky,” he states finally, “that Ellana forgave you long ago.”

 

Solas nods, glancing towards the elf, who is insisting that she is _absolutely fine Dorian, no more healing magic, stop fussing_ while they wait for Bull to finish washing the mugs. Her hair falls around her, springy coils framing her face, her blue shirt with a loose neck that shows her collarbones, all so familiar and yet—

 

“I know” he says.

 

When Bull and Dorian say their goodbyes, he stands by the closed door and a vague chill washes over him, as if he was back in the fields of Dirthavaren, wondering whether spring really meant renewal and reflourishing. Ellana touches his wrist:

 

“Stay.” With her other hand, she covers a yawn, and from up close he can see the weariness in her shoulders, small dark smudges under her eyes. “We can talk in the morning.”

 

“Yes” he replies, letting her guide them towards the bedroom, his pulse beating against her fingers. “I will stay.”

 

They undress in silence and Solas notices an angry purple bruise on her shoulder, takes one step towards it, hand glowing softly before stopping, reining back in the impulse to soothe - unworthy, unwanted. Ellana looks over, shakes her head minutely and moves towards him, touching the inside of his wrist.

 

“Later” she murmurs, passes by, only an inch of distance between them.

 

He can hear the water running in the bathroom, stays still, breathing in and out. He stays there for a long while, and it is only when Ellana comes back, touches his arm soothingly, that he moves, following her unspoken suggestion and moves to the bathroom.

 

Staring back at him in the mirror, his eyes are moist.

 

When he returns to the room, she is sitting in the bed, shoulder bared. The corner of her eyes crinkle as she smiles up to him, beckons him closer, lets him touch the injury, blood vessels burst under the skin, not flinching as the black fades to green. When he is done, Ellana opens space for him under the blankets, comes to rest against him, nosing his neck. He cannot help himself, snakes his arms around her, lips against her forehead, mouthing _ir abelas, vhenan, ma’sa’lath—_

 

“Vhen’an’ara” she says, tilts her head up and she tastes overwhelmingly of mint. He holds her face in his hands, and when he opens his eyes is to find her staring intently at him, no hesitation, no fear. It is something that he does not deserve, but the yearning is too much and losing her… They bump foreheads gently and she smiles in their kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

When he wakes, light filters through the windows and he wanders into the lounge, disconcerted to find Ellana on the armchair, a notebook on her lap filled with sweeping traces, familiar figures - Revas at her perch, tilting her head to the side, Revas mid-air, wings spread - and now, Revas staring outside the window. Ellana is holding the pencil, a smudge in her index finger, and barely looks at him, eyes darting up and down as she sketches.

 

He swallows thickly.

 

“Ravens have always been symbols of misfortune” his voice is low, “Even in Arlathan they were thought to carry the messages of displeased gods to the mortal word, bad omens for those in their path.”

 

Her hands still and she looks at him. There is something in her gaze, something fierce that had never been directed at him, and Solas feels the time has come - she will know now what she hasn’t acknowledged before.

 

“Is this another episode like the vallaslin? Will you again tell me of how the Dalish have lost track of our history?” her voice carries and she takes a deep breath. He wants her to fight him, but her tone is not aggressive, is not even disappointed, just tinged with exasperation, a lilt to her words and a tilt of her head. Solas clasps his hands behind his back, sees the blood writing on her face, which she carries as promise, as freedom and knows his words are futile.

 

“For the Dalish, ravens symbolise a transformation” her eyes are fixed on his. “Messages, yes, but of a different kind; messages that your life will change.”

 

He feels as if an anchor was pulling on his chest, an incessant tugging, wants to avert his gaze. There are no words he can offer, all would be in vain because whatever knowledge he has never prepared him for this.

 

“Solas” she says, and stops.

 

And she looks to the side, to where Revas has been watching this interaction. She lifts her uninjured arm, letting the pencil fall to the floor. And the daemon flies there, landing with the softest sound. The noise that escapes Solas is unintelligible and Ellana merely looks defiant as she raises her left hand to caress Revas head with the tips of her fingers. All the breath seems to escape him and Solas feels himself leaning against the wall as his knees weaken.

 

It is La’ghilan that walks to him, but Solas is not sure who makes the first movement when his hand connects to the daemon’s head, touching the soft fur, feeling the slight wetness of its nuzzle. The only thing he knows is that when he meets Ellana’s gaze, he feels magic like he hasn’t known in a millennia.

 

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this, breath heaving, eyes locked, before they are moving, kissing, and there is no parting, their bodies so close and his heart beats wildly, so alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you know” says Ellana, from her place in his arms and under the blankets, “that I took Dorian hiking for a while after… after last winter.”

 

Solas swallows around the guilt, smiles a bit: “I cannot imagine Dorian hiking.”

 

“He complained a lot” she admits. Burrows herself further in his warmth, her back against his chest, and tilts her head back. “We often set up camp under Fen’Harel statues—” and here he takes a sharp breath and she pokes his ribs as an admonition. “It was very comforting. And a good distraction for Dorian too. He wasn’t doing too well.”

 

Solas knows that the trip was not solely for the mage’s benefit, but thinks of Bull’s daemon peeking out from under the Qunari’s legs, thinks of Dorian scooping up the sand cat as they left the apartment and nods quietly. Ellana rests her head against his shoulder, breathes softly.

 

“Revas found us. It was then that I knew you would come back.”

 

“Ar lath ma” he says, around the constant fluttering of his heart. She merely smiles up to him, and it is a wondrous thing.

 

“And I, you” her hair tickles his neck. And then he tickles her side, and she laughs and laughs, turning around to kiss the bridge of his nose, his cupid’s bow, the dimple on his chin. The light of the setting sun turns the whole room into a golden, dreamy haze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

It is only later, when Solas gets up to wash his face, that he sees it. There is a line that wasn’t there before, just there, between his eyebrows, the softest mark. And he knows. For a moment, he just stays there, water running, watching his own face, trying to find another difference, but there is none, except for that one single line, so light as to be imperceptible, and his hands shake very slightly.

 

Time has always shifted around him, and now he moves as well, slowly, painstakingly ahead.

 

He walks back to the bed, climbs into Ellana’s waiting arms, feels her heart beat against his and maybe this is it, his heart so open, so full or maybe it is more than that, but how would he know now? The ways of the gods have never been true, and in this he can trust mortality.

 

Their breaths in tandem fill the room. Outside, the softest summer breeze makes the arbour blessings rustle.

 

“Var lath vir suledin” he whispers against her skin. “I will grow old with you”

 

She looks at him, touches his chest, just above his heart. There is no alarm in her face, merely contentment - and he knows it is a mirror of his own.

 

“Var lath vir suledin” she replies, kisses his lips. “I will find you when we both become Dust.”

**Author's Note:**

> It was only after I finished this that I came across taispeantas_laethuil amazing "Theriomorphism", and apparently, my headcanons were already out there. 
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> Made a tiny edit for some spelling mistakes.
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> Also you can find me on tumblr @ajollyjellyfish and on twitter as @sadelfclub.  
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> Please excuse any mistakes as English is not my first language.


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